Janine looked up. “You’re allergic?”
“Yeah, a little.”
She rummaged through her elegant tote and tossed him a pack of Benadryl. He hesitated, then popped two in his mouth. Janine proceeded to write the title of the course on the board in loopy cursive. Who could read that? A hacking sound filled the room. The guy was choking, grasping at his throat. Nia calmly went over and slapped him hard on the back until he stopped. I realized then that even though she was smaller than me, she could beat my ass.
Janine turned, dusting chalk off her hands, smiling like one of her students didn’t almost die. “When I say ‘autobiographical fiction or biographical fiction,’ what does that mean to you?”
A girl sporting a pink pixie cut said, “Fiction based on real life?”
“Stories or events that are factual but turned into a novel?” said the guy who almost died.
Janine looked at me. I stammered out, “Questions or concerns that are real to the writer and that… the writer acts out with fake characters?”
Janine nodded. “All of these answers are right. We’re talking about a spectrum here. See, what we’re trying to do is free up the story so it can encompass all the endless possibilities of fiction and all the inherent truth of nonfiction. It’s not that fictionisn’ttrue, it’s just that it has a different relationship to reality.” Janine’s face broke into a mischievous smile. “Playing in the big, big world of genre possibility. That’s what this class is about.”
Unlike Milken’s workshop, we wouldn’t submit pages to the class. Janine would give us writing exercises. Office hours would be used to talk through issues with our writing one-on-one.
I approached Janine after class to thank her for letting me in. She shushed me. “I can’t let anyone know I’m playing favorites. I’m already in trouble.”
I didn’t know what that meant, but I drifted out of class feeling high, generous.
Someone fell into step with me as I exited the building. Nia. I’d almost forgotten about fucking her boyfriend, but now the memory returned with full force.
“Your book—did you forget?”
I really did want it back, but I blurted, “You can keep it!”
“No, no. It’s yours. If—” Waving to a girl in platform boots, “Hi, Celine, cute coat,” then turning back to me, “If I keep it I’ll feel guilty every time I see it.”
She got a phone call on our way to the arts center. I tried to gauge if it was Tristan, but it didn’t seem to be. Maybe they werestill in a “weird place.” Her demeanor changed when we entered her studio. She started kicking boxes aside, frazzled, but not in her typical upbeat way.
“Are you okay?”
She gave me a startled look. “Oh, do you remember the West Bank writer who’s supposed to be coming in March?”
“Yeah.”
“The university’s being difficult. ‘Oh, sorry, you can’t have the auditorium, it’ll have to be in a classroom. Oh, wait, you need to get a sign-off from the lit department head. Oh, now actually the dean needs to sign off on it and campus police will need to be there, but you’ll have to pay their overtime fee.’ Now the university president has to sign something before we can go ahead. I’m trying to coordinate the writer’s travel stuff—I mean, it’s not the easiest thing, getting her to DC right now. Here it is.” She grabbedArt Monstersfrom a stack of books on her desk and handed it to me.
“Is there anything I can do to help?” I asked.
“Come to the reading.”
Smiling, I said, “Of course,” standing there awkwardly, knowing I should leave.
“I have to handle this, but I’ll call you?”
I said okay, though I knew I couldn’t go through with the portrait. My night with Tristan had foreclosed that option.
A news alert lit up my screen as I left the arts center. Deadly wildfires were burning through the Los Angeles area, out of control. A video: orange flames whipping the air, twisting into black plumes of smoke. My fingers fumbled over the dialing pad in a rush to reach Jay. He didn’t answer. I texted,Pls answer, r u ok?My whole body was wound tight as I boarded the bus.
When he called back a few minutes later, I didn’t wait for his “hello.” “Are you all right?”
“Yes, sorry, I’m housing some friends right now who can’t get back to their places, um—” He turned away from the phone to say somethinginaudible to someone else. “Yeah, this seafood place I used to go to burned down, I can’t believe it.”
I swayed with the bus’s turns, but it felt like we were going nowhere. “What are they saying? Is it close to you? The fires?” I was trying to be calm, but my heartbeat drummed unevenly. Measuring my breaths didn’t help it, like my organs were rebelling against me.
“Not really, there’s just a lot of smoke. They’re saying right now that the fires are zero percent contained. We might have to evacuate but I’ll text you if we do. I think we should be okay.”
